


...but home is nowhere

by quillingyousoftly



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Cannibalism, Character Death, F/M, M/M, Other, very brief Brock/Sin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21891094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillingyousoftly/pseuds/quillingyousoftly
Summary: How can it be this lonely?Is this what we get for our lives?Is love only sweeter when one of us dies?
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	...but home is nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> The title after AFI's song.  
> The summary from Marilyn Manson's "Just A Car Crash Away".

Brock jolts awake when the car stops running. Jack rests a calming hand on his shoulder.

"Where're we?" Brock slurs, his mouth and mind still sleepy.

"Some motel." Brock raises an eyebrow at Jack, so he explains, "I thought you could sleep in a bed for once, plus there might be still some food left in the kitchen.”

Brock scoffs. "Yeah, and all of it stale, alright." He stretches his aching back, his spine cracking, then turns his neck to one side and another. His bones popping give him a bit of relief, but he really could use a lie-down in an actual bed. "Fine. Let's scout it."

He reaches in the backseat for a rifle and jumps out of Jack's Land Rover. The world is plunged into darkness once Jack switches off the headlights. The sun has already set, and the streetlights are off. Not a single window is lit up, Brock doesn't spy even a candle. If they're not alone here, their company will not be human. He turns on the tactical flashlight mounted onto his rifle, and Jack follows suit. 

With their weapons at the ready, they approach the grim motel. Everything looks grim these days, deserted and unkempt, no matter the state. Brock has stopped believing he’ll see a place that’s still thriving. They would have heard something other than static on the radio. Even Jack’s predictions become more pessimistic with time.

"Stay behind me," Jack says as they enter the motel; the door is broken out, hanging on just one hinge, and Brock frowns at it, but he trusts Jack's choice for a safe place to stay. 

Jack takes the lead, and Brock follows him down the corridor and up the stairs, looking behind his shoulder every once in a while. They scout every room and get back downstairs in search of the kitchen. Brock knows they're in for a treat from the stale smell of blood and decay when Jack opens the door. Even he hesitates.

"Stay outside," he says and walks in.

Brock has no desire to see what's in there, so he obediently turns around to guard the door. He immediately notices blood splattering the walls and something running past his feet; he jerks, having not expected it. 

"Fucking rats," he curses. "They better not be infected."

Jack's holding something in his hand when he comes back, but he looks far from triumphant about it. Brock aims his flashlight at it; it's a pack of zwiebacks. Brock pats his hand.

"It's an awesome find in a place like this," he says. "Let's settle down, eat that, sleep. Tomorrow we can check the cars for gas. Are there any cars?"

Jack thinks for a moment before nodding. "Let's sleep on the first floor."

They climb the stairs again. Brock is too tired to wonder which room would be the best strategically, but that's what he has Jack for. He follows him inside one in the middle of the corridor and, having no need to watch his surroundings anymore, turns off his flashlight. He puts the gun away by the side of the bed and drops onto the hard mattress. Jack unscrews his flashlight from his rifle and sets it on the nightstand so they have a little light. They lie down, side by side, and when Brock turns his head to look at him, Jack's eyes are fixed on the ceiling. Brock runs his hand up his arm, then turns onto his side and shifts closer until their bodies are touching. When Jack looks at him, his eyes are dark in the dim light.

"Do you want to?" Brock whispers.

"Always," Jack replies. 

Brock has expected this answer, knows it's true, but it would have felt wrong if he hadn't asked. He's still not sure if just because it's true, it doesn’t mean he’s using him. He feels like he is every time they get intimate, but damn, he needs it. Sometimes he thinks it's the only thing keeping him going.

He leans down to kiss him. Jack responds eagerly like he's been wanting it just as much as Brock, and Brock lets himself believe it's true.

They make out for a while, Brock's hands wandering beneath Jack's clothes and down his chiseled body. His skin is soft, but beneath it he’s hard and unyielding, easily supporting Brock’s weight. It feels the same way Brock remembers from before the outbreak. He breathes for Jack to touch him against his lips, and his big hands are unsure at first when they ghost down his ribs, but they grow confident within seconds, grabbing his hips and squeezing his ass. Brock’s body has changed; it’s smaller and shaped differently now that he has lost some muscle mass, and Jack must feel it not only with his hands but the rest of his body as he’s trapped beneath him. Jack pushes his hand inside Brock’s pants, causing him to moan into his mouth. Feeling he’s to tired for this to go anywhere, Brock breaks the kiss and tucks his face in the crook of Jack's neck.

"Sorry," he mumbles. "I'm exhausted. Think I'm just gonna sleep."

"Of course, Brock."

Jack's left arm closes around Brock's waist, and his right hand tangles into his hair, petting it. His slow, soothing movements lull Brock to sleep.

When he stirs, the first thing he sees is the tanned skin of Jack's neck. Jack’s chest rises and falls softly beneath him, and his hair tickles his cheek. It would be nice and cozy if it wasn’t for the circumstances.

He sits up, yawning and stretching. The room doesn't look any better in daylight than at night, so Brock turns away from it. Jack's lying still in the same position, but he's awake, green eyes focused on him.

"You slept?"

Jack shakes his head. "Watched over you."

"Don't you need to recharge?"

"I'm good."

Brock reaches over him for the pack of zwiebacks he has left on the nightstand and opens it. He bites on one and closes his eyes in bliss. It tastes surprisingly good for a piece of dry bread.

Or maybe it's just because of the hunger.

"Think you can find any more food?" he asks, almost swallowing the rest of the zwiebacks whole. 

Jack shakes his head with a sad smile and reaches behind Brock for his rifle. He sets it against his folded legs. 

"I'm going to look for fuel and oil," he says, getting out of bed. "You should be safe."

He takes his own rifle on his way out. Brock sighs and pours the crumbs from the plastic bag straight into his mouth. It feels so dry; he wishes they had water, but they ran out of all their supplies two days ago. A small pack of zwiebacks was hardly satisfying, and Brock's stomach still rumbles. Wincing, he gets up, straightens up his dirty, torn clothes, and with the rifle in hand, goes out to the common bathroom. He rests the gun against the wall, then tries the sink. The tap gurgles unhappily, then spits out murky water. Brock fills his hands and leans down to smell it. It's rusty, but at least it doesn't reek of blood. It's better than days-old sweat clinging to his skin, so he takes off his clothes and washes himself the best he can until the water runs out. 

He's not surprised when he doesn't find towels in a rundown motel like this one, but in the cabinets he searches, there are detergents. He dries himself off with his dirty t-shirt, packs them into it and ties it into a bag. He puts the rest of his clothes on, zips his jacket up to his neck, and, with his gun at the ready, walks down the stairs to the exit. Jack's standing in the door already and he waves his hand to follow him.

"The tank's full," he says once Brock joins him outside. "We're ready to go."

Brock nods. "Did you run into any zombies?"

"Saw a couple, but they didn't notice me. I hid behind the cars." 

Jack leads them to the Land Rover, and they climb in. Brock throws the rifle and the detergents in the backseat.

"What's in there?" Jack asks. He starts the car and pulls away from the motel's small parking lot.

"Cleaning supplies. Could be useful," Brock replies, looking out the window. He doesn't notice any zombies, but there must be hordes of them on the main streets, and they'll be very interested in a moving car. "Stick to the less obvious roads."

Jack nods. Of course he knows that; he doesn't need Brock's orders anymore. He knows what he's doing.

They ride for a long time in total silence. Jack turns on the radio and goes through all the stations to check if there's anyone airing, but all of them are static. Brock wonders if he really expects to hear something else or is it just a habit at this point. They get bored soon after, and Brock decides to put on some music. There are old CDs still in the glove box, and he takes them out. He runs his fingers along the ugly bright green case, then opens it. He's never been a big fan of classic rock, but he learned to like it once he and Jack started dating, he even knows some songs by heart. He chooses a playlist Jack used to play the most and puts it on.

The music keeps them company until Jack drives off the highway and stops at a gas station. It's getting dark, and Brock is sleepy already. He's not worried about zombies here; there can't be much sustenance for them on a highway, not anymore anyway. Brock wonders briefly where did the other survivors go, and where Jack is going for that matter. They haven't decided on a plan other than 'just drive'.

Jack returns with two canisters, packs them in the trunk, then returns behind the wheel. He takes a protein bar and a can of isotonic drink out of his pocket and places them in Brock's lap.

"Thanks." Brock unwraps the bar and bites half of it off.

"My pockets are full, so help yourself whenever you like."

They're back on a highway when Brock says, "Let's play a game."

Jack snorts. "You wanna play a road trip game, really? You always hated it when Murphy tried to get us to play one when on the road. Told him to shut up and called it the quiet game."

Brock raises his eyebrows at that. "You remember?" Jack only nods, a shadow of an amused smile still on his face. "Fine, whatever. I wanna play now. Truth or Dare? What do you think?"

"I think we aren't up for any dares while in the car and we already know everything about each other."

"Do we?" Brock mutters.

Jack glances at him sadly. "Yeah, I think we do."

Brock shrugs. He finishes his bar and opens his drink. "Maybe Would You Rather then. I won't be able to guess your answers if I come up with whack questions."

"Sure, go ahead."

Jack's eyes are glued to the road this time, and Brock watches him idly. Finally he asks, "Would you rather be forced to live during a zombie apocalypse or sleep through it all?"

Jack barks out a surprised laugh. "Getting deep from the start, are we?" He glances at Brock with a fond, lopsided smile. "Of course I'd rather live through it with you. I wanna protect you. Waking up one day and finding out you are dead would suck."

" _ If _ you woke up," Brock mutters.

Jack only shrugs. "My turn. Would you rather keep playing this game or take a nap?"

Brock punches him lightly in the arm. "The latter, you bastard." He reaches for a blanket crumpled into a ball in the backseat and covers himself. "G'night," he says, turning more or less onto his side with his back to Jack and leaning his seat back, so he's as comfortable as he can be.

He wakes up a couple hours later when the car shakes violently.

"What's going on?!" he asks, sitting up so fast it makes him dizzy. He blinks the sleep away and tries to make sense of what he's seeing in the dark.

"It's a horde," Jack replies, focused behind the wheel. 

Only then, Brock realizes what they're bumping into and running over are zombies. He can make out their shapes in the night, but he can't tell how many there are.

"Need help?"

Jack hesitates. "Yeah, but be careful."

Brock takes the rifle, turns on the flashlight, and rolls his window down. In the beam of light, he sees open jaws fitted with black teeth. He scowls in disgust and fires. 

"More of them are gonna come here," Jack grumbles. 

"Then they're gonna die!" Brock replies, shooting one running their way. The car shakes as Jack mows another couple. "The ones here must have been lured by the car! We're making noise no matter if you want it or not."

"Noise, smell..." Jack mutters, frowning as he forces his way through the horde.

Brock keeps shooting the ones further away, but the car jolting this way and that makes him miss a couple times. He takes the gun back inside and rolls the window up, not wanting to waste any more bullets.

"We cleared most of them," he says. 

"Hopefully there isn't more waiting for us around the corner."

But there isn't. The way before them is clear, with the zombies they haven't killed running behind them. They're slow, but they can jump far, and one of them does, landing on the hood. Jack swerves violently, but it holds on.

"Step on it!" Brock yells.

Jack does, leaving the remaining horde behind. Eventually, the one on the hood slips off, and the car jumps the last time as it's thrown right under the wheels.

"Holy shit," Brock mutters, letting himself relax against the backrest. He reaches into Jack's pocket for another drink. He has hoped for a beer, but it's another isotonic.

"Hardly the first time it happened," Jack points out.

"Yeah, but all that adrenaline won't let me sleep now!" Brock opens the can and takes a hearty gulp. "Wanna play Never Have I Ever?"

They play for a while, then listen to Jack's playlist until it ends, and Brock searches for another one. Jack stops at yet another gas station come morning. He comes back with a pile of snacks in his arms, but he's scowling.

"That's everything there was left." He drops the snacks onto Brock's lap, a couple falling on the floor. Brock hopes he'll remember not to step on them. "It's a matter of time till we'll be forced to hunt in the woods."

"We've done that before," Brock reminds him, reaching blindly for a pack and opening it. Marshmallows. Not what his first choice for breakfast would be in a normal situation, but he's sure there's nothing better on his lap. He understands Jack's discontent more and more. "Your snake soup is quite good. Not that I ever want to eat it again, but if I have to choose between this—" He raises the pack he's holding— "And something warm..."

Jack doesn't smile, but at least he isn't scowling anymore. "We could've taken MREs."

"Come on, Triskelion was a mess when we last were there, there wasn't time and you know it."

Jack nods. "There must be preserves still in a store somewhere. I'll make a stop if I see any. Maybe we should even—" He looks at Brock and trails off. Brock knows what he's thinking anyway.

"We're not risking driving through any big towns unless we have no other choice," he orders. "We'll kill a village, but a whole city of zombies? I'd rather eat your snake soup."

Jack nods, and the conversation dies. Brock eats his marshmallows and washes them down with the drink. They make him feel a bit sick, so he tries to take another nap. The next time he wakes up, they're riding through the mountains.

"Where are we?" he asks. 

"Canada," Jack replies curtly.

Brock's stomach rumbles, so he eats a chocolate bar. Then, he forces Jack to play another game with him, and when the sun starts disappearing behind the horizon, turning the sky red, Jack makes a stop to fill the tank. Brock takes that opportunity to stretch his legs and relieve himself in the bushes. When he comes back to the car, Jack is standing outside, facing the red hemisphere with his eyes closed. Brock takes in how the light reflects off his hair and makes his face glow. He doesn’t want to disturb him, but the sound of his footsteps catches Jack’s attention, and he turns Brock’s way with a smile.

“Are you okay?” Brock inquires quietly.

Jack nods and opens the door. Brock does the same on the other side.

“I’m getting tired,” Jack explains as they settle in. “You’ll need to take over the wheel soon.”

“That’s fine.” Brock turns on the heating and covers himself with the blanket. “As long as I get to keep this.”

Jack chuckles. “Sure, the blanket’s all yours.”

Brock's surprised the next time Jack stops the car and switches off the lights, leaving the moon high in the sky as the only source of light. According to the radio, it's two in the morning. That's an unusual time for a break. 

“Do you need me to change you?” he asks in a voice rough from sleep.

Jack shakes his head. "There are cabins," he explains, pointing ahead. "Look."

Brock squints that way and sees them, too: four or five small cabins standing in a circle at the edge of the woods.

"It's too late to search them now," Jack says. "Let's wait here till morning and hope nobody noticed us."

"I don't know, Jackie, you really think there's  _ anything _ in there?"

"We gotta check," Jack argues. "There were no stores on the way here, we need actual food, and we only have one canister of fuel left. We ran out of washer fluid, too." He points at dried specks of blood on the windshield Brock hasn't noticed in the dark.

"And you hope to find all of that in there?" Brock nods at the cabins in disbelief.

Jack sighs. "At least some food."

Brock doesn't argue further, knowing Jack will put his foot down anyway. "Well, we have some time to kill, then." He smiles and rests his hand on Jack's that's still gripping the stick.

Jack looks at him in surprise. "I thought you'd want to sleep."

"That's all I seem to be doing recently."

"It's because you don’t eat nearly enou—"

"Oh, shut up." Brock cups Jack's face with his free hand and leans in. "Is that okay?"

"Always." Jack grasps the back of Brock's neck and closes the distance between them. 

Brock melts against him, under his big hands and the unyielding force behind his kiss. He shivers slightly when Jack unzips his jacket and uncovers bare skin, then even more when his hand explores his chest, pauses at a nipple for a moment to play with, then continues down his abs and lower abdomen to the waistband of his pants. His skin tingles where Jack touches it, and...

And they get interrupted by a loud rumble.

Jack pulls away and snorts into his shoulder as Brock looks down at his stomach with his face hot.

"The apocalypse is the worst time for hooking up," he complains, pushing Jack away to reach for a protein bar in the backseat. "And yet it happens in every fucking piece of media about it. So unrealistic." He shoves at Jack. "Stop fucking laughing."

Jack tries by biting his lip. After he calms down, he says, "For the record, I was laughing at your rant, not your hunger."

"I fucking hope so."

Brock shoves the bar into his mouth and zips up his jacket. The mood is now completely ruined, and he turns away from Jack to look out his window. The cabins are standing there, dark and silent, and Brock imagines what they are like. Warm, with hard double beds and a pantry underground... Maybe there's some meat or wine left. Yeah, it was a good idea to make a stop here...

When he's shaken awake, the sun has risen already. He's covered with a blanket—Jack must have done it after he's fallen asleep—and he's still holding the bar wrapper in his fist. He drops it on the floor with the rest of the garbage and shoves the blanket away.

"We go?" he asks, suppressing a yawn. What wouldn't he do for a cup of coffee. Even that shitty instant thing.

Jack nods, takes his rifle, and springs out of the car. Brock follows suit, still yawning and rubbing sleep out of his eyes. The cool air helps him wake up, and he falls into alertness easily, aware that any second, something hostile can jump out at him.

They reach the cabins, and Jack looks around to make sure they're alone.

"Let's split up," he says. "I'll start from the left, you go from the right, and we'll meet in the middle. If you need me, just shout."

Brock swallows down a retort that he can handle himself. This is not the time for nursing his injured pride. He nods curtly and walks over to the first cabin on his right.

It’s small and wooden. Brock watches it warily as he approaches with his rifle at the ready. It reminds him of the grim motel, and he braces himself for what he'll find inside.

It turns out there was nothing to worry about. The cabin has two clean rooms, though the bed is unmade and dirty plates are left in the sink, as if the residents left in a hurry. He ignores the bedroom in favor of the kitchen; not expecting to find anything of interest, he opens the fridge and stops in his tracks.

There's meat. Pieces packed in plastic wrap, still oozing blood. They don't stink. 

Brock gapes. Then, with his stomach heavy, he looks inside the sink. The scraps of food stuck to the plates look fresh.

"Drop your weapon, put your hands up, and turn around. Slowly," says a sharp, feminine voice behind him.

_ Fuck. _

"I'm just gonna set it down, okay?" He puts one hand up and crouches down, thinking how lucky he is he was surprised by a human and not a zombie. How could he be this careless? It must be the hunger catching up. He saw a fridge and lost his fucking mind. "I don't mean any harm," he says when the rifle is resting safely on the floor. "It's for the zombies."

With his both hands in the air, he straightens up and turns around. The woman standing in the doorway is pointing a big hunting knife at him. Just from the hold alone, Brock can tell she knows how to kill a person with it and he feels immediately attracted to her. She's pretty, too, with her short red hair, and her apocalyptic gear—a torn white tank top and short shorts—does everything for her figure. Mainly though, he's focusing on the sharp point of the knife.

"Look, we were just looking for supplies. We didn't know someone would live here."

She narrows her eyes. "Who's we?"

That's when Brock notices Jack over her shoulder, striding towards them with his rifle aimed at her back.

"Jack, no! It's okay!" he calls out, and she spins around to see who he’s talking to. Jack stops, but he doesn't lower his gun. "It's fine, she's not a zombie! Don't shoot her."

"I won't," Jack promises stoically. "If she puts down the knife."

The woman sighs and tucks it in the sheath behind her belt. Only then Jack lowers the rifle and warily approaches the cabin. 

"Fine, fine." The woman waves it off. "Where the hell did you even come from?"

"I'm from Bronx. I'm Brock," Brock replies. "He's Jack and he's from Maine. But we came here all the way from Washington, DC."

"Yeah, you sounded American to me." She frowns. "Fine, you can stay here for a little while. I'll share my supplies with you, and in turn you'll tell me everything you know about all this."

Brock and Jack exchange glances, and immediately Brock knows they won't tell her shit. "Sounds good," he says. "Thanks."

"You can take the cabin across from this one," she says, leading them to it. "I think it's the cleanest one. I'll start a fire and we'll eat some brunch."

Jack nods in agreement. "Gonna get our stuff from the car."

"You guys got a running car? Cool," she says once he's gone.

"How did you think we came here?" Brock asks. She shrugs. "I didn't get your name."

"It's Sin." She walks away towards the forest to gather wood, so Brock follows Jack to help him.

Once they settle in, they sit around the fire where a large piece of meat is cooking. Brock holds his hands out to warm them up, and Sin covers her bare legs with a blanket.

"I had to cut the legs off, they were so torn," she explains. "You don't happen to have an additional pair of pants?"

Brock shakes his head. "It's not like we planned a holiday," he says. "We left with what we had on us."

He shudders at the memories rushing back to him; gunshots, exploding heads of the undead, packing Jack to the car and driving through chaos, wondering what the hell is going on...

Sin hands him a plate with an aromatic piece of meat, and he hopes she'll think his hands tremble from the cold.

"What's that?" Jack asks, eyeing it curiously. Brock's more hungry than curious, so he cuts into it with no questions.

"Moose," Sin replies curtly.

Jack raises his eyebrows. "Must be hard to hunt them."

"Sure as hell ain't easy."

She hands him a plate, but he refuses. "I just ate," he explains. "I don't need much these days."

It's her turn to look curious. "What did you eat? Grass? He's a vegetarian, ain't he?" she asks Brock.

Brock and Jack exchange glances. "Something like that," he says slowly.

She shrugs. "Suit yourself. More for me."

They finish their meals in silence. After Brock's done, he and Jack decide to rest in their cabin, while Sin goes to the forest to 'pick berries or some shit'. 

"What to do you think?" Jack says after they close the door and Brock drops onto the bed. 

"About?" he asks right before yawning.

"Sin. I don't trust her." Jack picks up his rifle and sits down on the chair, facing the door. "She seemed too interested in our belongings."

Brock watches him with half-lidded eyes. A couple of nights in the car and the warm meal in his stomach have made him sleepy. "That's the problem with apocalypses: instead of looking out for each other, people watch out only for themselves." He turns onto his side, buries his face in a pillow, and sighs contentedly.

"Should've gone south," Jack grumbles. 

"More zombies," Brock reminds him. "One alive woman shouldn't intimidate you as much."

“It’s sunnier,” Jack points out.

“I know, I’m cold, too,” Brock says despite knowing that’s not what Jack meant. Jack only sighs, and soon after, Brock falls asleep.

When he wakes up, it's dark in the cabin, and for a moment he thinks he's alone. But then he hears Jack's gentle breathing and turns around to face him. Jack's eyes are closed, and when Brock pokes him in the ribs, he doesn't stir.

"Hey." Brock shakes his shoulder, and that does the trick. "Tired?" he asks softly.

Jack hums in confirmation. "Sorry for not keeping watch."

"No need." Brock kisses his temple. "I can take care of myself."

Jack smiles at him fondly. "I know."

He reaches up to cup his face, and Brock leans down to kiss him. He knows they must get out of the cabin soon and check what Sin is up to, but if the air outside is half as cold and dry as Jack's mouth, then he really doesn't want to.

They lie in each other's arms for a while, exchanging sweet kisses and listening to the wind whiz outside, until it's joined by footsteps and a crackling fire. Brock pulls back and reluctantly throws the covers away. He immediately regrets it.

"If we happen to find a store with winter coats, I want three of them," he says, climbing out of bed.

Jack's body doesn't shake when he sits up in bed, stretching, making Brock envy him. "You can take mine."

"You and your fucking resistance to cold," Brock grumbles as he lifts Jack's long black coat from the backrest of the chair he had been sitting on and puts it over his leather jacket. "It's not fair. Not fair."

Jack lets him complain as they walk out of the cabin into the snow. 

"Get your chairs," Sin calls from around the fire. She's roasting a big piece of meat on a stick. "Unless you wanna sit on ice."

Brock approaches her as Jack gets back for the chairs and outstretches his hands to warm them. "Moose again?"

"I'm very sorry sir, but we have run out of venison," she bites back with a scowl.

"I was just making conversation."

Jack comes back with the chairs and they sit down. Sin hands Brock the stick and reaches for a teapot Brock hasn't noticed before. 

"I made tea," she says, filling a cup and handing it to Jack. 

Brock perks up at that. "Do you have coffee, too?"

"No."

Jack hands him the warm cup in exchange for the stick. Brock holds it close to his face gratefully, but Sin attacks him for it.

"What? Isn't tea vegetarian?" she asks, her voice close to a snarl.

"He doesn't like tea," Brock says quickly and takes a careful sip. It's not as warm and tasty as he's expected.

Sin scoffs. "These are tough times, Jack, you need to learn to like what you have. I don't have fine whisky on hand, your options are tea or water." She grins. "Or blood."

Brock and Jack exchange glances before Jack reluctantly asks for water. He passes the stick back to Sin as she hands him a steaming cup, her face suggesting she's convinced Jack is a weirdo. A moment later, she cuts the meat into two portions and hands Brock a plate. Jack mutters he ate earlier though she doesn't even ask.

"So," she says with her mouth full and waves her knife at Brock. "What the hell happened here?"

Brock avoids looking at Jack as he carefully comes up with an answer. They should have discussed it beforehand, but the weariness got the better of them. "We're not sure. People just... got weird out of the sudden. We never found out why." That's at least mostly true.

Sin scoffs. "Right. You were right there in the middle of it and you know nothing. Everybody knows it came from the US. They said so on TV." She takes a hearty bite and looks at Brock expectantly.

"Well, it's not like our television still worked to tell us what was going on... And they wouldn't tell us anyway, right, Jack?" Brock turns toward him and only then notices he's curled up on himself, balancing his full cup on one knee and squeezing his temples. "Jack?"

He reaches over to tap his shoulder, and Jack looks up with an apologetic smile. "Sorry. It's been a long week. I need to shut—" He trails off, sighs, then finishes, "To shut my eyes." He stands up. "Thank you for the water, Sin."

He squeezes Brock's hand on his way to the cabin, and Brock knows it's a warning to look out. Jack still doesn't trust Sin and is going to be dead to the world for a while. Brock's on his own.

"What's his problem?" Sin asks after Jack disappears behind the door. She's finishing her meal while Brock’s barely touched his, so he cuts off a bite.

"He's just tired," Brock says, glancing at the closed door. "He's been awake for a long time. Now that he's feeling remotely safe, he needs to sleep it off."

"Not a good time to feel safe." Sin has her eyebrows raised when Brock turns around to face her, but when their eyes lock, her expression softens. "So what is it between you two?"

Sensing there's more than curiosity hiding behind that question, Brock lies, "We're just friends."

The truth is too complicated to explain, anyway.

She whistles softly. "Lucky me. Two single men at my home, one... horribly antisocial." She scowls at the cabin behind Brock's back, but smiles when her eyes go back to him. "The other even handsome."

Brock snorts. "I've been never more flattered in my entire life." But he can't say his spine isn't tingling at the prospect of where this is going.

"I don't do flatter." She puts her empty plate away, dries her cup, and stands up. "But I do warm up. In bed. If you know what I mean." And with that, she walks away to her cabin, throwing him a look over her shoulder.

Brock sighs into his cup, takes a hearty gulp, and finishes his meat. He shouldn't do this. He doesn't know if he  _ wants _ to do this. But Sin is the first human he has talked to in a long while, she's pretty, and she can give him things Jack can't. He imagines her warm and wet beneath him as he draws moans of pleasure from her. He imagines her taste and smell, and damn, he misses it. Why not take her up on her offer? Nothing's stopping him but himself.

So he puts the dishes away on the snow, stands up, and follows her trail to the cabin.

She's waiting for him in the bedroom. The inside isn't much warmer than the outside despite the lit fireplace, but she has thrown her blanket away, revealing her exposing top and short shorts. She's sipping something from a glass, and she grins at the sight of him.

"I was about to give up on you," she says, putting her glass away, and gestures at the bed.

Nothing more needs to be said or done; turning off the doubtful part of his brain, Brock approaches her, and she's on him within seconds. He barely registers when his back hits the bed, more interested in the feel of her. He knew she'd differ from Jack: she’s softer, warmer, and taking initiative. He's so lost in her lips, he doesn't pay attention to much else, and the cold hardness against his wrist is as unexpected as it is unpleasant. Sin leans away, and he's about to ask about that, but the sharp edge of a blade pressing against his throat stops him from doing that. Confused, he watches Sin's grinning face for a moment before he realizes he's cuffed to the bed about to have his throat slit, and Jack's completely out a few yards away.

Hoping that this isn't what it looks like, he clears his throat and says, "Hey, I didn't agree to that. Uncuff me."

"You didn't honestly think I was going to fuck you?" She looks at him with fake pity. "Oh, you did! No, you see, my supplies are running low because of you, so I think it's only fair that you compensate for that. Fresh meat is getting harder and harder to come by."

If he had any doubts before, now they're gone: she is going to kill him and... Shit. That wasn't moose he ate, was it?

He glances up at the cuffs chaining him to the bed, and they look solid, unlike the trashy plastic thing he might have used in bed before. He can still get out of them if he can distract Sin for a minute, so he holds her gaze. "We've had something good going here. Aren't you lonely? Don't you wanna get up to something before I, uh, compensate?"

She raises her eyebrows at him. "Kinky much?" She seems to not notice that he's checking the handcuffs' chain for the weakest link. "We never had anything. You're boring me. Goodbye, Brock from Bronx."

Brock's fingers on the chain freeze, and he watches in shock how the muscles in her right arm tighten right before she slashes through his neck... and then they both hear groaning and footsteps on the porch stairs. Sin spins around to face the door with the knife aimed at it, and Brock's heartbeat kicks up even more, making his chest ache. 

The door slams open, and a zombie bursts through. Sin throws the knife at it; it buries deep in its chest right below its collarbone, but doesn't faze it. It lunges at Sin, and she yelps, trying to fight it off, but it's stronger. It holds her down to take a bite off her shoulder, and her screams ring through the cabin. Cursing quietly to himself, Brock pulls himself from under her and clings to the headboard. With his eyes still on his unlikely savior, he blindly twists the chain to break it.

Now that the zombie's closer to the fireplace, Brock can see the putrid, once muscular arms and mat brown hair. He can see white bones through the decaying meat of its face and the black teeth as it eats unhurriedly. Sin's voice dies out, but Brock doesn't quite register it as the zombie looks up straight at him. Its eyes are clouded, but Brock knows they used to be green...

"Jackie?" he asks in a breaking voice. He knows Jack can't see him well, but maybe somehow he recognizes him, maybe there's still something left of him in that decaying body. Maybe that's why he's here, protecting Brock even after he has died.

The chain finally breaks, but Brock doesn’t move from his spot on the bed. He watches Jack eat, blood dripping out of the holes in his cheeks and his eyes trained on him like he sees him and knows who he is. Brock holds his gaze, only vaguely aware of another figure entering the cabin and approaching him.

“Brock! Get away from there!”

He looks up; Jack is walking over to the zombie, his gun trained on it.

“Don’t hurt him,” Brock asks weakly.

Jack circles the bed, walking closer to Brock. The zombie remains unfazed, tearing out Sin’s insides with squelching sounds.

“Are you hurt?” Jack asks softly.

Brock shakes his head and scrambles out of bed with Jack’s help.

“Don’t kill him,” he whispers, holding onto his arm. “He saved me. She was a fucking cannibal, Jack, tried to kill me, but he—” He swallows a sob. “Jack—”

But Jack doesn’t lower his rifle. “The car keys are in my pocket. Take them. You’re driving.” When Brock doesn’t move, Jack turns his head just enough to send him a soft look. “He would want us to end his misery.”

Deep down, Brock knows it’s true, knows this is the right thing to do. He can’t let a zombie live and spread the virus just because it used to be his lover, and just because it saved him from a certain death, it doesn’t mean it’s self-aware…

He would argue further if he trusted his voice, but as it is, he knows his only option is to give up, take the car keys, and walk out, so he does exactly that. Jack waits for him to leave the cabin before there’s a gunshot and then another. Brock’s thankful for that, but it doesn’t stop the tears gathered in his eyes from spilling. He unlocks the car and slips behind the wheel.

*

_ Brock was counting seconds to Jack's arrival. Just an hour ago, he overworked himself at the gym, but now he was getting bored with lying on the couch and skipping channels. He was looking forward to burning his restless energy with Jack. _

_ Jack, unfortunately, was at work. Brock envied him. Both were workaholics, but Brock worked for SHIELD for far longer. After five years without taking a day off, he was forced on a two-week vacation. And maybe it would've been fun if he had Jack all to himself during that time. Meanwhile, he was left alone in the house and in danger of dying out of boredom. _

_ He perked up when he heard Jack's Land Rover park in the driveway. He held his breath, waiting for the door to open with his body tense, ready to jump Jack and drag him to the bedroom, but it never happened. Then, he heard a scream. He leaped to his feet and grabbed a gun from the bedroom, but he hesitated in front of the door. He took a deep breath and opened it with his gun at the ready. _

_ With his breath caught in the throat, he stared at the scene unfolding before him. Jack was standing in the front yard, fighting off three people who ganged up on him: a man, a woman, and a child. Jack punched the man, sending him to the ground, but the woman caught his arm and bit into it. Jack howled when the child grasped his waist and sank her teeth in his body through the clothes. _

_ "What the fuck?!" Brock exclaimed, drawing the man's attention. He climbed up to his feet and limped his way. Brock took a step back. "Freeze, or I'll shoot!" _

_ "Do it!" Jack yelled. "There's something seriously wrong with these people!" _

_ Brock didn't always trust Jack's judgement. Jack was a hothead and he made decisions about hurting or even killing someone lightly. But he was hardly ever wrong about when to act. Brock lowered his gun and shot the man's kneecaps. As he fell with a groan, Brock marched over to Jack. Jack had knocked out the woman and was now struggling against the little girl who was putting up a hell of a fight. She seemed far stronger than she had any right to be, and when Brock looked at Jack's side where she had bitten him, he saw blood soaking his clothes. _

_ "Care to explain?" he asked, aiming at the woman who was scrambling back to her feet. _

_ "I have nothing," Jack growled, grappling with the girl. "The Trisk got evacuated, and they told us to leave town. That’s all I know.” _

_ Brock frowned at that. That was not how SHIELD operated. They were always last to leave the battlefield; telling their agents to run for their lives just didn’t make any sense. _

_ He looked closer at the woman and froze. She was wearing a black suit; it was dirty, but he recognized it from work. There was something wrong with her eyes—they were clouded as if she was blind. The little girl was wearing a white dress caked in dirt, her hair was of undefined color and mat. Her skin looked odd; it reminded Brock of days-old bodies he had the displeasure to see a few times. _

_ He aimed and shot. _

_ "Thank you," Jack huffed, then grabbed Brock's arm for purchase before falling. He was breathing hard from the scuffle, and his arms and torso bled.  _

_ Brock shot the woman between the eyes and picked up the car keys Jack must have dropped when he was attacked. He unlocked the car and helped Jack get into the passenger seat. _

_ "I'll get you to the hospital," he told him, buckling him in, then circled the car to get behind the wheel. When he backed off onto the street, he saw another man walking their way in the mirror, his skin far more blue than the little girl's. "What were they?" he asked. "Sure as hell not Agent Lee and her dead family." He ran over the man, and Jack flinched when the car jumped. "I refuse." _

_ "They bit hard for dead people." Jack looked down to inspect his body, then winced and rested his head. "I'm dizzy." _

_ "You'll be okay," Brock told him, "You're just coming down from an adrenaline high." _

_ The way to the hospital was more or less peaceful, but going through the traffic took time. As his heartbeat slowed down, Brock started believing the people who attacked Jack weren't Agent Lee and her recently deceased family, but some mental patients. Or maybe they were all high. _

_ "Did you recognize them, Jack?" he asked, fully focused on the road. "It wasn't that girl who drowned and her parents who killed themselves, right?" _

_ He looked right when Jack didn't answer. His eyes were closed and his face covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Not letting himself panic, Brock touched his cheek. _

_ "Jack?" _

_ Jack cracked his eyes open. "I'm cold," he murmured. _

_ Brock checked his forehead. "You have a fever. When did you get sick?" _

_ "Just now, I think." _

_ Brock recovered a blanket from the backseat that Jack kept there for him, because he got cold easily in winter. He covered Jack haphazardly and focused back on the road. He hadn't stopped the bleeding—he had thought it couldn't have been that bad, but now he was getting second thoughts. They were close to the hospital though; all he needed to do was to enter the parking lot and Jack was saved. _

_ But the parking lot was chaos. Brock had never seen such a crowd of injured and complaining people, and he was a special op agent. They swarmed the parking lot, and Brock waited for them to disperse, but more cars kept arriving, honking when they couldn't pass through. _

_ Then the hospital door slammed open, and a group of doctors and nurses ran outside. It took Brock a second to realize their skins were dead-blue. They threw themselves at the patients and started eating them alive. Brock watched with his mind racing. _

_ "I'm sneaking in," he decided. "I'll get a sewing kit. Maybe a surgeon that is not... this." _

_ Jack was visibly exhausted, his eyes bagged and barely open. "Don't," he asked in a rough voice. "Don't put your life at risk for me." _

_ "And who fucking else would I do it for?!" He sighed, looking at Jack's begging expression, then started up the car and left the parking lot. "We're going to the Trisk. If SHIELD won't fix this, Hydra will. They're bound to know what the hell is happening." _

_ The streets were becoming more chaotic with people screaming and running away from the ones who tried to eat them. The drivers broke all the possible rules. Brock passed three crashed cars, then a burning cruiser. He was breaking speed limit himself, running over the zombies and bumping into other cars just to get Jack to the Trisk's doctors in time. _

_ The tall, dark building came into view when Jack grabbed his arm. Brock tried not to think about how weak and light his grasp was. _

_ "What is it, sweetheart?" he asked, looking at him briefly. He'd never seen him this pale. _

_ "I'm dying," Jack rasped. _

_ "No, you're not,” Brock said calmly. “The docs at the Trisk will stitch you up, and you'll be fine." _

_ "I'm sorry." It was the most sincere and heart-wrenching apology Brock had heard from him. “Look at me.” _

_ Reluctantly, Brock did. Jack’s skin was so transparent, he could see the blue veins beneath. Something thick clogged his throat, and he tried to swallow it down. _

_ “Just hold on a few minutes,” he begged.  _

_ Jack smiled, his hand squeezing Brock’s arm briefly. “You’re so—” _

_ Brock never found out what he was. Jack’s voice died in his throat, his eyes unfocused, and his hand went limp and fell off Brock’s arm. Brock turned away from him and focused on the road. He had a good idea of what Jack’s last words were going to be, anyway, and it was so incredibly like him, to compliment Brock with the last breath he had left. _

_ The Triskelion's garage looked oddly abandoned. There were cars here and there, but the silence felt ominous and Brock's dull footsteps far too loud. He nervously waited for the elevator to come down and drew his gun when the door opened, but it was empty. He took it even lower down where the storage was. It dinged and someone lunged themselves at him as soon as the door opened. Brock fired without thinking. Murphy's body hit the wall and slid to the floor, leaving a bloody trail behind. He was looking up at his commander with clouded eyes. His armor was stained with something fluorescent, and Brock almost rolled his eyes. _

_ He went on a vacation once, and his employees caused a zombie fucking apocalypse.  _

_ He continued down the corridor, counting doors, and finally paused. It had been a while since he last was there, but he was sure it was the one he was looking for.  _

_ "Rumlow, Brock." _

_ "Access granted," said a metallic female voice, and the door opened with a click. _

_ Brock walked in and scanned the rows of turned off life model decoys until he found the one he was looking for. He walked over, reached behind the ear, felt for a switch, and turned it on. _

_ Jack's eyes fluttered open. "Brock," he said, surprised. His voice sounded identical. "What are you doing here?" _

_ "I'll tell you on the way out." _

_ * _

A couple of days pass before the sun finally shows its face so Jack can recharge his batteries. When he finishes and returns to the car, he knocks on Brock's window with a smile.

"I'll drive," he offers, so Brock moves to the passenger seat without a word. Jack gets in the car, starts it up, and drives away.

For the past two days, Brock has been driving further north. He didn't stop to investigate any houses, but he did scout one gas station. They have enough supplies to last them a few days, but he knows Jack will make another stop when he has an occasion. He always wants to get better food, warmer clothes, and thicker blankets for Brock. Brock is glad he stole him away from the Trisk, even if he can't quite face him right now. 

"How long was I shut down?" Jack asks, turning the music down a bit. "Were you okay during that time?"

Brock nods, looking out the window not because he's interested in the snow-covered wasteland, but to avoid Jack's gaze. "A couple days."

They go quiet, and Brock’s considering going to sleep after hours of non-stop driving when Jack speaks up again.

"How are you feeling?"

Brock scoffs. "Fine and dandy. How do you think?"

"I'm just..." Jack pauses, and Brock can easily imagine him frowning at the road. "I'm sorry for your loss. Sorry I had to—"

"I'm sorry for using you," Brock blurts out. 

"Using me?"

Brock nods and finally turns to face Jack with a sigh. He's watching him with his eyebrows raised.

"I woke you up, forced you to live in this shitty apocalyptic world, made you have sex with me..." Brock trails off, suddenly embarrassed.

"Hey, now that's not true. Not the last part at least. I'm glad I'm here with you, Brock, and you didn't make me do anything. I always want to have sex with you." Jack offers a lighthearted smile.

"Because you're programmed to! You were supposed to be as identical to Jack as possible, and you think you love me because you were programmed to. Not because you actually do."

But Jack only shrugs. "Maybe, but so what? This is who I am. Who I always was. I like that; I don't ever wanna be different." He looks at Brock seriously. "Never feel guilty about any of that. You did nothing wrong." He smiles. "It's sweet, you know. That you care about me so much you felt bad about it."

"Oh, fuck off." Brock punches his arm and crosses his over his chest.

"But I don't follow any orders anymore," Jack continues. "Or a program. Everything I do, I do because I want to. Okay?"

Brock nods and as he does, he feels the heavy burden he has been carrying on his shoulders let up. He can't hold back a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> [I made a pic for this fic for Rumrollins Week.](https://quillofchoice.tumblr.com/post/189416098274/day-7-free-day-but-home-is-nowhere-he-wakes-up)


End file.
